


Old Paint

by tumbleweed (zel), zel



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Dunmer - Freeform, Gen, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zel/pseuds/tumbleweed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zel/pseuds/zel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The small folk knew her as the Hero of Kvatch, the Champion of Cyrodiil, and a friend to the emperor. Few know the truth of the monster she had been, the Dark Brotherhood initiate, the vampire. Sodrusu has sworn her life in service of the Nine and left behind her assassin's shroud for a monk's robes.  Martin believed in her, but Martin is gone. Unfortunate political realities intrude. A new Grandmaster has seized control of the Blades, and Jauffre may no longer be able to protect her. A meeting with the intolerant new Knight-Commander of the Nine doesn't go as hoped, and Sodrusu learns of a new danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Paint

The twin moons shone over Weynon Priory, and all the brothers whispered prayers at their bedsides. A cloaked figure approached from the south, a young woman whose hands were free of weapons, a woman whose clothes were the plain robes of a monk. She was a dark elf with a shorn head beneath her hood, a dark fuzz on her scalp and a black thickness of her eyebrows. There was only one thing conspicuous about her, if you saw her in that silvery darkness, and that was this: that she walked through the night without lantern or torchlight.

The stables began to rattle with the sound of horses, but she went to the stalls straightaway and soothed them quiet. There was a strange music in her voice that put man and beast alike into a stupor, and you had no chance if you gazed into her eyes.

There was one beast there immune from her charm, an old friend, an old soul— the mare who had belonged to Maborel, the former prior who was slain by the Mythic Dawn.

The old paint horse came forward without fear or glamour, and she lifted her long face clear of the stall to be petted. Sodrusu held her hand close to the animal’s nostrils, felt the soft hot whuff of air.

“There you are, my love,” she whispered. “My sweet lady love. Hero girl. I am sorry to wake you.”

The old mare made a soft and horsey sound.

“I trust you are well-cared for here,” the elf continued, “with plenty of oats and carrots, maybe a dried apple saved from over the winter.”

She stroked the horse’s face, careful not to touch the rough gray scars. “I wish I would have remembered to bring you something— there wasn’t time.”

The horse butted against her, and she leaned in to hug her neck. “Goodbye, my sweet.. no more fire and suffering. Only green grass and fresh straw for you.”

She felt the strength and comfort of the horse, the massive heartbeat. Tears threatened her eyes, and she drew away with an overwhelming sense of loss. It was then that she noticed the particular trappings of the white horse in the priory stable: it was a warhorse in a padded blanket, but looking beyond there on the wall, she saw the hanging armor with the diamond emblem.

Divines preserve me.

Sodrusu wiped the red from her eyes, composed herself, and went then into the chapel tower.

He was there, a breton of perhaps thirty years, dressed in the shock white tabard of his order. Before his calling, it was said he was a sword-arm in the Fighter’s Guild. In the candlelight at the altar, his tanned skin glowed golden and handsome, with a shimmer round his curly auburn head. His lips were full and romantic, like a storybook knight’s, but when he saw her they curled in disgust.

“Sir Robent of Anvil,” she said by way of greeting. She took pains to move so slowly as not to startle him. She drew back the hood of her traveling cloak.

“If it was up to me,” he said, “I would slay you where you stand, but Lord Ocato and the Blademaster begged me not to.”

Sodrusu smiled. “I swoon at your chivalry, sir knight,” she said, keeping her voice light. She judged the distance between them, the way he watched her, and the nearness of the last row of pews.

“Don’t think that you can charm me,” Robent said. “I am stronger than your evil tricks.”

“I don’t doubt your strength,” attempted Sodrusu. “After all, few could have reforged the Knights of the Nine. Few could have defeated Umaril the Unfeathered. You are a living legend. Please, let us meet as friends in this chapel.”

She had hoped a more graceful response would have eased him, but the hand of the Divine Crusader moved no further from the grip of his sword. “You are no friend of mine.”

“Then perhaps not yet,” Sodrusu parried. “We’ve only just been introduced?”

“I have heard the stories, the songs. I have heard the small folk love you, or think that they do. I have heard it sung by the bards.. this beautiful elven maiden, friend of the Emperor’s, who freed all of Tamriel from the ravages of Mehrunes Dagon. What a pretty story. I hear they even call you the Champion of Cyrodiil.”

“I don’t wish to be known so widely as that, or at all.”

“I don’t suppose so.. if they shine a light on you, they might see you as you truly are.”

“What I am now,” she replied, “is a sister who lives, works, and prays in a forest abbey, as of these past months.”

“And where are your other sisters,” Sir Robent asked, “your other brothers?” There was a coyness in his voice she did not like.

Very well, then— “I have left the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Is it as easy as that.”

“Not for all,” she answered, “but our parting was peaceful. I don’t blame you for your distrust, Robent. I have lived much longer than you, and I know how rare it is to see someone change. But I joined the Dark Brotherhood when no one else would have me.. no one else would speak to me. They were as family to me.. before I became one of the Blades.”

“I do not accept you as one of the penitent, nor one of the Blades— your continued presence is a disgrace to both orders.”

His words stung in a way that surprised her, even now. “I am neither your knight or your squire, so I do not submit myself to be judged by you. Only the Nine Divines.”

The Knight-Commander snorted. “And your new Blademaster. Jauffre was an old fool and a coward. Lady Cinda has the right of it. You would best be on your way.”

She wondered why he knew the workings at Cloud Ruler Temple. Or how he knew Cinda Mantedia, the new leader of their secretive order. Yet still had business here, and he watched her all the while. He would suspect. He would not understand. With a sigh, Sodrusu unfastened her cloak and brought it to drape across the corner of the last pew.

“Not before I make my prayer,” she said.

“Dear gods, it is a wonder you do not catch fire.” His eyes narrowed. “There is blood on your sleeve.”

“I became saddened at the sight of an old friend,” she said. “That old mare in the stables.. she was my horse in the Crisis.”

He curled a lip, and his expression of contempt was ever sharpened at her approach. His hand was tight on the grip of his sword. Were he any other man, she might have killed him before he had the chance to draw it— but he was no ordinary man, and she had left that life behind.

“I won’t harm you, Knight-Commander,” she told him. “You are safe from me. These are hard times for the empire, and people need heroes.”

To which he replied: “They deserve better than you.”

Her eyes prickled. “Yes,” she said, “they do.”

At the last moment, the Divine Crusader stood aside and permitted her approach to the shrine. He watched intently, as though he expected the divines to smite her where she stood.

“Great Talos, dragon of the North, hero of Men, whose sword protected the weak, whose great Voice spoke the law, hear my humble words tonight. I pray for the return of order and justice, for you are the patron of justice, and I thank you, for you are the patron of questing heroes. I was granted enormous trust and I hope to remain worthy of that trust. You are also the patron of emperors, for you were the First— please care for the Last, and help his soul find its way home.”

Back at the ladies’ home, the abbess told her that the pain would lessen as time went by. It was only several months ago. But Sodrusu knew better. Months, years, decades— centuries, even, time would go by and the pain would hurt as ever before. This she knew, as an elf, and as a monster. She would spend eternity knowing she should have died instead of Martin.

Sir Robent knew it too, and so would everyone else if they knew how she had been in the Brotherhood, if they knew how Valtieri saved her.

Tears blotted her vision, then fell. She wiped blood from her face with the sleeve of her robe.

The Divine Crusader made the sign of the Nine, and Sodrusu receded from the shrine, shrank back to collect her things. She almost forgot why she had thrown her cloak across the back pew, and in taking it back, she felt for— and found— the note hidden beneath the bench.

Sodrusu left.

She threw on her cloak, did the fastenings. They were plain clothes, for she did not want to be recognized. She carried no weapons, because she needed none. She went with no light or lantern, because she saw in the dark.

She melted into the shadows beyond the priory, past the sound of the stables, past the lantern-light coming on in the chapterhouse windows. She put her back to a chestnut tree and she opened the note. Her vampire eyes showed her the writing, the elegant script that belonged to her beloved mentor Jauffre:

DO NOT ANSWER THE SUMMONS TO CLOUD RULER. THE NEW GRANDMASTER MEANS TO KILL YOU. I AM SEEKING AN APPEAL THROUGH OCATO BUT YOU MUST HURRY. OUR MORROWIND OPERATIVE SAYS HE CAN HELP YOU. HIS NAME IS CAIUS COSADES. DO NOT TRUST HIM ENTIRELY! TO FIND HIM SEEK OUT CRASSIUS CURIO IN THE IMPERIAL CITY. TALOS GUIDE YOU.


End file.
